Pan spoke at last: "Child! wander and learn
The lilt of the bird and the song of the burn:
And when thou hast learned from the burn and the bird
Thou'lt find me again" (the forest heart stirred).
"Hail! child from the plaintful Kingdom of Man."
The mountain-tops shouted, "Evoë, great Pan!"
The rivers sang deeply, "Evoë, great Pan!"
And whisperingly I, "Evoë, great Pan!"
SECOND DAY
The rose-trees show but a tuft of green
Where a stern, cold pruning-knife has been,
But they promise a summer of fragrant wealth:
How the small buds come to the light by stealth
Like pixies shy; yet a pruning knife
Leads every browny-bare branch to life.
Slowly I passed thro' the rustic gate,
Where wine-red roses will hold June fête;
The wind stole out from the blossoming row
Of the cherry-trees, and he whispered low:
"Are you content to be bound by a wall,
E'en tho' it boundeth things beautiful?
Tho' cherry and apple bloom over it fall,
Always it is, and it hath been, a wall.
'Tis true that thro' it there is a wicket,
But what can it know of the wild grown thicket
That grows where its pathway may never wander:
Out of this garden—the blue land yonder?"
And a cuckoo called; and the echo ran,
"Evoë, Evoë, Evoë, great Pan!"
Then my Lover lifted me up in his arms,
And swiftly arose. How the grey-roofed farms
Receded into the cup-like earth!
And I chanted a canzone of Springtime and Birth,
Which called o'er the sea to the firstling swallow,
Who flew beside us o'er height and hollow,
Till others came from their home of the Sun,
And the farm-folk cried, "Dear Summer's begun."
Hundreds and thousands followed our flight—
ALL ENGLAND WILL HAVE A SWALLOW TO-NIGHT.
By the old elm's portal of Arcady
My Lover alighted and whispered to me,
"O lily of laughter! O sister of flowers!
Wander alone in Arcadian bowers,
And I will return when the sun goes down,
And wing you home to your grey, grey town.
I kiss your little white hands and feet:
Farewell!" And he rose, on wings so fleet
Over the nests in the cradling larch,
Over the bow of the rainbow's arch.
Where conifers grow in fine profusion,
And birches quiver in sweet confusion,
Where hawthorn waits with a danseuse grace
To burst on the scene with her milk-white face,
And pirouette near some stately spruce,
Scattering around him pearly dews,
Where rabbits scamper thro' grasses lush,
And a pheasant's screech breaks the noon-day hush,
I journeyed on, till the sun began
His westering course.
"Evoë, great Pan!
Never a note of your pipings to-day
Has guided my steps thro' the sylvan way.
O! where must I seek in this Paradise?"
"Evoë, Evoë," a linnet sighs,
"Seek where the sisterly marshes are,
Where the marigold twinkles, a golden star,
Where willow and alder hide the river,
Where timid reed-warblers tremble and shiver."
The sky showed pink thro' the branches grey,
And then I heard, as if far away,
A tremulous song, a music of fears
That was strung together by trills of tears,
A quivering star glowed, curtained by leaves,
And the hullets called from some distant eaves.
I found Pan crouched by the river's edge,
His hoofed feet hid by the rushy sedge,
And I listened his plaint.